Careless
by The Huntress1
Summary: NF-verse. He wants her to come to her senses and she willingly obliges. A fictional interlude that--so far--avoids the advent of Robin. Much by way of romance ensues.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Certain names, themes and places have been bandied about. Most—such as names--are used incidentally, others are used with definite purpose. Though I haven't seen "The Barefoot Contessa" in some months by now, the movie stuck with me throughout this entire piece, so there's that. The Ella Fitzgerald song is indirectly credited. Elsie and Pip very much inspired by characters from "Gosford Park" though it should be noted that a numeral follows Pip for a reason as over twenty-five years had gone by at this point. The movie "Atonement" colors Bruce and Selina's early years, but decidedly avoids that (though great) downer of an ending. I've taken so many liberties I could never fully excuse myself. Either way, still New Frontier-verse. And once again, all recognizable characters make roll-call at DC Comics.**

*The Mediterranean, August 1957*

"What's the matter Sally? You don't like Monaco?"

Selina turned onto her back, enjoying his eyes running the length of her bronze form there on the deck cushions. She silently thanked the Jantzen company for the simple black swimsuit and did her best not the cringe. There it was again, Ted's absolute mangling of the word. For one thing it was Monaco, not "Moe-nacko."

She merely raised her chin toward the sun, "Not at all Teddy. Couldn't be better."

Behind her sunglasses, she knew he couldn't read her true expression, and with this contented smile she also guessed he couldn't tell that she was bored out of her skull. The fact that she knew both Oliver Queen and Bruce Wayne were joining them ashore tonight did however give her an incentive to play nice. Then again, a week of drippy old Thad Covington and she'd take a night with the _Joker_ if it meant getting off this yacht.

She suppressed the urge to jump when Ted placed his hand on her thigh, "You've been pretty quiet lately kiddo."

"I don't suppose a ghost would know the difference."

He squinted and sighed, wondering off-handedly if she was going to simply bitch up the whole night. Then he decided to try the soft approach and stretched out next to her, "You're sore that I've been ignoring you so much lately? I mean, think about it Sal, I've got interviews, that cover with Sports Illustrated. The Wheaties thing…I guess all of that really isn't up your alley huh?"

She shrugged and didn't reply.

He ran his hand over her stomach now, "I know. We'll take a weekend, wherever you want. Really get things straight once and for all." There it was, just for a second, he wouldn't have missed the tensing in her stomach wall for anything. He didn't want to try to figure out whether it was good or bad. He waited a beat, "You'll have to dress me tonight. You know I'll never get used to these snobs."

She lifted the shades and looked at him, "You're talking to one of these 'snobs.'"

She didn't look offended, just sounded the part, so he tried to keep his tone level, "Goddamnit Sally. You're not the same as these stiffs. Not anymore."

Her voice was like vibrating steel, "You mean since they scratched me off the register? After I divorced Donny?"

If she wanted to go the tough route, he'd go too, and he folded his hands beneath his chin, "You said it, not me."

She crossed both her arms and ankles and stared at the sky above, nary a cloud in sight, "I'll say that a baggy smoking jacket won't cut it tonight."

"Tails?"

"And white tie. But you could have guessed that without me."

"I can guess yeah, but you, you know."

There was a record playing on the Crosley, something a little older by Ella Fitzgerald. She tried not the let the words annoy her as she became painfully aware of what she'd suspected all along: She was his stairway to the stars, the upper echelons of society. She supposed in a bitter sort of way that Dinah was what he really needed. Someone who'd lived and grown up as he had. Slums, stickball, so on and so forth. Selina was ginger ale at the country club and daddy's Packard. Foxcroft and Newport. Princeton dances and the Yale-Harvard game.

She rolled back onto her stomach, realizing that it stung much more than she expected. And she was embarrassed at how it must have looked. Crestfallen socialite clinging to the arm of the battered champ, and for what? Excitement? Adventure? And wasn't she getting a little old for this? Was this what she had in mind for the rest of her life?

She decided once and for all that she had to break it off. Dinah was a good catch, honestly, she couldn't think of anyone better. And it'd be a smooth transition. No tears, no fuss. Hopefully. Ted did have quite a jealous streak when one got right down to it. She didn't doubt his old pal Glen Doyle was still nursing a sore chin after he'd made the mistake of putting his arm about her shoulders at another party a few months prior.

She rose suddenly, sharply and grabbed her robe, "I'm going to take a nap. I'll see you later; we'll have a little supper before we dock."

"Sure. Hey, toss me that oil will you?"

She lugged the bottle and he caught it effortlessly. For a moment she let her eyes linger. He really was a nice old guy. And cute. But they weren't a match. Better to get out now before he got some crazy notion in his head about marrying her. No way in hell was she going to be his ticket to the Four Hundred. With that she turned abruptly and marched to her state room.

**Evening**

"I'm honestly not much of a dog person," Selina admitted, cringing as Bruce slipped the little fellow another sliver of ham.

He smiled and began scratching them under their chin, "His name is Pip the fourth, a Brussells Griffon. He belongs to Elsie Langdon."

"The one that came over from London, made a very _small_ name for herself in the pictures and married that director?"

Bruce glanced at her, "You oughtn't sound that way."

Selina started a cigarette and leaned back in her chair, "I'm sorry, I know. I'm just…have you ever realized exactly what's been going on around you and felt like a fool for it?"

"Not personally, but I'm sure Bruce has had that problem from time to time."

She gave him a very not-in-the-mood look and staring between her shoes, admitted it, "I'm throwing Ted over tonight."

He smirked, "Overboard?"

She shut her eyes, "Bruce, I swear to God…"

He sighed, "I might have expected this some months ago. I can't imagine what's taken so long."

"Doubt."

He frowned and she was certain that wasn't what he'd wanted to hear, "Not you. Me."

"How so?"

"I'm merely worried this cat may not land on her feet that's all. I can't—_we_ can't exactly go back to the old routine. You've got ninety different reasons to watch your back these days…I'd hate myself if I simply went back to being another one of them.

She didn't wait for his response, "But I miss it. You know I do. I'd go back to Gotham and open up the apartment and what? Wait? For whom? You?"

He was looking at the dog, "No one said you'd have to wait long."

She shook her head, "It's not enough. With Ted, I'd have that…home life. Oh, he's fond of me, in no uncertain terms. But I could be Marlena Tower or Georgina Roland and it wouldn't make too much difference. He's…he's kind about it, but he's climbing. I know that now, even though I didn't want to believe it. Or care really. It's not as though I really count for much socially anymore anyhow. But could he be here without me?"

Bruce let the side of his hand brush hers, "I wouldn't be in Monaco without you either. It was Ollie's idea, but when I heard you were here…let us say I found a bit more motivation. As for the other…problem, you know I don't care one way or the other."

"_Bruce Wayne_ doesn't have to care about my predicament, such as it is. He does whatever he darn well pleases. But, in going back to Gotham, I might as well tie on a necklace of bells and announce, 'the leper has returned!'"

Bruce was disheartened. He'd known her since their families summered together at Watch Hill in his childhood. Their affection for one another had gone unspoken for years when it finally bubbled to the surface the night before he left for Asia at seventeen. Agatha Queen had given a supper dance for her nephew's friends and Bruce had admitted his attraction in a less than chivalrous fashion, but there it was. And, suddenly, there they were, against the bookshelves in the library. They each professed their love and that was it. He set sail the following evening with his uncle Phillip's blessing and though they wrote often at first, it eventually dwindled down to nothing.

Her marriage to Donald Foutley in '42 had run concurrent to the war after he'd come home in '43 a complete wreck. After two years of abuse, both verbal and occasionally physical, she'd divorced him and the scandal had played up in the papers for months. Even V-J Day did nothing to raise her spirits that summer.

When Bruce returned, he became one of a few old friends who didn't treat her as a pariah. He'd always guessed that if they'd married right off, the whole nonsense would have been forgiven and they'd be making the usual rounds in no time. But he had other knightlier commitments and she had no patience for a man who was nothing like his former self.

It had taken them years to find their old friendship again but he often wondered if it was too late.

He let the dog down and watched as it scampered off through the halls in search of its mistress, "I'll only ask you once and never again. Please come home. You're not doing yourself any favors here."

She bit her lip and nodded, "I know."

"You know?"

She set her chin on his shoulder, not exactly caring who saw, knowing and loving that Bruce felt the same fearless concern for her. She remembered that lovely night in Las Vegas and quoted him, "What would you have me do?"

He reached over and stubbed out the long forgotten cigarette, "You'll come with me. Tonight. Damn the rest."

She looked up somewhat surprised and saw those beautiful, unwavering blue eyes. She knew Ted was in the casino with Oliver and Thad. Dinah was at his side. For once she was grateful and standing, let Bruce assist her with her wrap, "You're leaving Ollie?"

Bruce paid their table's bill by way of parting and gently took her arm, "He's left me in worse shape in the past. He'll be fine."

Then she let her mind go blissfully blank. She had missed this, she realized. She missed her old devil may care self. And she'd missed him too, masks be damned.

He sent a valet for his car, some rented coupe, and standing there briefly allowed himself to wrap his arms about her, then he drew back. He wouldn't further damage her reputation this way. Whatever he did, however he did it, he had to be careful.

She on the other hand leaned against his chest in the light wind. With him, the whole world might be watching, but she was careless.


	2. Hot Air, Cold Drafts

**Disclaimer: Not much to disclaim here, only that I've watched half of "Revolutionary Road" lately and I'm sure that had something to do with this. As for the party, scenes of the movie "Capote" danced through my head. I'm pretty sure that's it.**

*Gotham City, Late-October, 1959*

She rarely fell into bed as she had the night before, at least, not these past few years. Rarely slipped so completely into sleep. So untroubled, so guiltless.

And she'd beat her own best timing. She'd made it into and was bored right out of the Totenfeld's party in just under two hours. Bruce hadn't even bothered to show but she knew better—and had practically promised—not to be offended.

The street had rumbled and the windows rattled just as she'd stepped out of the cab. An explosion some blocks away. The driver had smirked and tipped his hat, "Another night, another wack-job in a mask trying to knock something over."

She'd gathered her coat close and smiled, it certainly figured. Upstairs she gave into her nicotine craving, bumming a cigarette from Dot DeLancey. Bruce would be disappointed; she'd gone three whole days this time.

She stood in their rotating circles and laughed at their stories and gave a few witty remarks of her own and shrugged off Pal Dershowitz's advances. She had one martini, the most she could take on an empty stomach, but Betsy "Best" Totenfeld was quite disinterested in food. All the girls were. They popped olives and cheeses just like their pills and if they gave in to a decent meal, lo how they "unswallowed" it all, angry and frustrated on their knees in the morning with a finger to their uvula. In the meantime, they settled for filling one another with hot air.

Bert Golding of the Gotham Weekly Review was going on about Castro and, God, if Stanley Vreeland wasn't joining in. Selina let a stifled yawn flare her nostrils—all very ladylike—and slipped into the hallway. She cautiously opened the door to their sons' room that was pulling double-duty as the cloakroom. The twins were asleep, oblivious in their matching print pajamas. The one with the freckles—she remembered his name was Alan—was nestling a Mickey Mouse doll under his left arm. The other one must have been Bobby.

Selina watched them for a moment before they began to tug all the wrong strings and annoyance set in. She'd been pregnant once. When Donny shipped out and got all caught up in that Battle of Midway or what have you. She'd knitted and was delighted and everything. Her mother took her to her dressmaker downtown and they had poured over the fabric, planning out her maternity dresses but she'd miscarried and cried in her cousin's arms that summer at Newport. Donny never forgave her for losing it and it became just another one of her basic failures.

Her brow flattened and she tugged her coat, none too gently, from the heap over Bobby's form. The boy didn't so much as bat an eyelash. She turned from them both and let herself sneer. But just as quickly she shook the expression away. They're just kids.

She wished for another cigarette but decided that she'd simply cut out. Going through the living room might involve a number of excuses and sorrys she didn't feel like making up. She reached into her pocketbook and felt the compartment at the bottom. There were, after all, other ways of showing her appreciation for the invite.

**Morning**

She blinked at the gold haze that colored her room. If she didn't know better, she'd simply shrug off that strange solid shadow at the edge of her vision and sink back down into sleep. But, she did indeed know better, and against all reason began to speak to it, "How long have you been here?"

She knew her throat was somewhat hoarse from disuse, but she waited as he turned around. He was holding two things.

She sat up fully and rubbed her eye and pulled her knees up to her chest, "You might say 'good morning.'"

He pulled his mask back and looked at her solemnly, "I always liked this one best."

He held it up for her, the purple and green job with the slit up the leg. She smirked, sleepy and intrigued, "Me too…but you'll agree, it's not very functional. And oh, but I kept putting runs in my silk stockings, snagging them on fire escapes and the like. And if the war taught me anything, it's that there's nothing so precious as a pair of silk stockings."

She lay back again and reached into her bedside table, retrieving and starting a cigarette.

His brow curled, "You were doing so well."

She ignored the gentle admonishment and looked at the door to the hall, "Why don't you wash up and join me?"

He sat down at her dressing table chair, letting her old costume fall to the floor next to the newer one, "You told me, many months ago, that you did not want to be one of the ninety things I had to worry about. Perhaps…you prefer to be number one."

She smiled, blushing slightly, "You flatter me Bruce."

He opened his other hand and held out the string of pearls and handful of diamonds and silver she'd taken from Betsy Totenfeld's safe, "I don't know what to say…"

Selina propped two of the pillows up behind her and set the cigarette in the ashtray, "I said you had ninety different reasons to watch your back…I'm not interested in tripping you up or seeing you 'disappeared,' or anything like that." She stopped and let the idea land home for a moment, him in chains, shoved along by guards, going away, perhaps forever.

She let her head fall back over the pillows and closed her eyes, "Take them back if you want them, but I…I deserve a little fun, it's been too damned long and anyhow, Betsy bores me. They all do."

"Oh?"

"I guess I've been away too long," she snuggled down beneath the eiderdown and stared at him, "Society's fading Bruce. You and I know it. But I don't fit in with commoners, like Ted, and I don't really give a damn about the Register anymore. The only time I really feel human is when I've got that mask on," she smiled, "And then, perhaps my fingers get a little…sticky."

He nodded and slipped them into his belt before replacing the cowl and turning to leave.

"Wait," she stubbed out the cigarette and got up, bringing the cover with her, "Aren't you tired?"

She caressed his cheek and didn't react when the cover slipped off one of her shoulders, exposing her breast. She could almost see him turning over the possibilities in his mind but he turned and pushed up the sill, letting cold air flow into the room, "I'll need to return these."

She harrumphed and shut the window behind him before climbing back into bed. This time, sleep did not come as easily and was not nearly as satisfying.


End file.
